


The Haunted Man

by nerdrumple



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle Revelry, gothic romance AU, spoopy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 06:07:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12524740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdrumple/pseuds/nerdrumple
Summary: When her father tries to arrange a marriage for her, Belle decides to take fate into her own hands - but seeking the help of Mr. Gold is its own winding, mysterious path. Gothic Romance Rumbelle AU. Best Rumbelle Revelry TEA 2018 :)





	The Haunted Man

“You’re at it again.”

Mr. Gold hovered over her bishop, his attention briefly diverted away from the plans she had for his knight. Her chess game had improved greatly over the course of several evenings, this great autumn party her father had invited half the county over for. The house full, the staff anxious, the nights bloated with music and chatter and demands that she perform on the piano forte or offer the paltry gift of her song to guests.

“Just waiting for you to make your move.”

Belle bit her lip, holding back a smile. She loved autumn; the rain and wind against the windows, the warm fire in the hearths, but the people, all these people - the conversation was dull, the applause mocking, the laughter chittish. The worst was her father, he’d let wolves enter his door - they ate his food and drank his wine, but laughed at his expense behind his own ornate doors. He allowed their mocking, allowed their pride to tower over his - perhaps his gambling habit didn’t care if you were wolf or squid, as long as you’d play, as long as you’d drink, and kept his mind occupied away from his depleting accounts.

Belle’s mood wasn’t always sour, embarrassed - in the days she could hide with her tea and her books. And the evenings, oh, the evenings offered games with Mr. Gold, a reprieve she looked forward to with the greatest delight.

Ah, Mr. Gold. Belle’s friends imagined him a stark, thin man with a pointed nose and perpetual scowl - descriptors that left most of her father’s guests steering clear of his presence. An eternal bachelor and miser, Belle could see why the strange man had earned his particular reputation. But in the quiet evenings they’d spent together, she’d learned of a different man entirely. Dry and sharp, his sardonic humor had her laughing aloud so often he’d started to smile back in return. He’d invited her to chess, and one night of games had led to another, and another and another and another.

They’d hide away in a corner, after an exchange of roasts and barbs, and once tucked away, a drape half hiding them and a fire nearby to keep them wrapped in their words and glow, they’d duel at the board.

This particular evening, though, had been spoiled by her father.

Belle’s brow furrowed and her fingers trembled at the game pieces. Mr. Gold watched with amusement, finally commenting when her tremors managed to knock a pawn off the small playing table.

“You’re positively vibrating this evening, Miss French. Tell me, what’s bothered you so?”

Belle’s cheeks burned as Gold retrieved the pawn and placed it back on the table.

“Papa wishes to marry me off.”

Gold snorted. “Surely he has always meant for that, dearie.”

Belle shook her head. “Mr. Gaston met with him in private. Asked for my hand without ever bothering to ask _me_ if I wanted to give it. And Papa has readily agreed.”

Gold was silent, his smile a still, thoughtful thing while he finally made his move. His stilted reaction gave her hope, though, as she watched him make the foolish play she’d counted on to expose his knight.

“Mr. Gaston is a handsome man,” Gold said idly. “Handsome to the tune of five thousand a year. That will care for you after your father has squandered away your own fortune.”

He did this often, made jabs at her father and his dealings. She frowned. “Papa has treated me as though I’m something to squander as well. I cannot allow it. I must take my hand back, play it myself.”

She took his knight, and he offered a pleased little grunt. She smiled despite herself - she had little talent for a poker face.

“And how do you plan on doing that?” Mr. Gold asked. “What scheme has the clever Miss French come up with now?”

He had accused her of schemes since she was a little girl. The accusation used to be offered with a wry smile, the word _clever_ spoken like it was a very bad trait indeed, but over time she came to understand his tone for something different. It was palpable now, that _different_ , hanging between them. There was nervous energy about them, now.

He made his next move, and, damn, there went her own knight.

“No one decides my fate but me,” she said, making a move that he shook his head at.

“You speak with passion, Miss French, and passion will cloud your head. It’s lost you the focus of our game. You’ve left your queen open to attack. _Check_.”

But Belle smiled because, there, finally, all her careful planning had led him right where she wanted him. “You’ve done the same, Mr. Gold,” she said, moving her pawns into place to reveal his folly. “Your queen is in a position no better than mine. _Check_.” 

His brows lifted in honest surprise as he surveyed the board. A smile without calculation or amusement lighted his face, that rare thing she loved so. “I took you for granted, Miss French. Your mind proves worthy once again.”

“Whether or not I am truly worthy will play out soon enough, sir,” Belle said, suddenly snatching her queen from the board and palming it firmly. She lay her arm across the board, offering Mr. Gold her hand. His own hand hovered over the piece he’d been ready to move, frozen by her sudden break of their game.

“No one decides my fate but me,” Belle repeated. “Not Papa, not Mr. Gaston. I mean to change the course they’ve set for me.”

She opened her palm, her small gift to him, the white queen that lay there.

“Will you go to my father?” she asked. “Please?”

Gold leaned forward, his fingers brushing the white piece in her hand.

“What is it you’re asking me, Belle?” and the use of her Christian name, hissed through his thin mouth with such urgency told her she would soon win her prize. “Be direct. It’s a quality I’ve long admired in you, don’t hide it now.”

“I wish for _your_ hand, not Mr. Gaston’s,” she said, and she flipped their hands, depositing her queen into his palm, resting her palm atop his. Their game had left the board entirely. “It is _your_ mind I feel equal to. _Your_ company I seek at these dreadful affairs. We are kin of the soul, are we not? What were all these nights to lead to, if not this? Our discussions of books, of politics, our games of chess? It is more than words we share, surely?”

His face was completely gone of its smile. “You want me for a husband?”

She couldn’t read him, his poker game was always better than hers. “I want a choice, don’t you see? And for my choice to be respected, not dealt to me. I want you for a husband, yes. Please. Please. If you’ll have me,” and she squeezed his hand closed, his fingers curling round her white queen, the points cutting into his palm.

Mr. Gold stared at Belle a long moment, those hard eyes beaded into something black while thinking, thinking.

“You know not what you ask,” he said.

But he withdrew his hand, stowed the white queen into his pocket, leaned back to observe her more broadly. His tone surprised her; how close they were huddled before, how intimate they’d been! Surely he’d suspected her feelings?

He stood, after a long moment.

“I will speak with your father, Miss French. I will do what I can to help you.”

He turned without saying goodbye, without offering any promises or words of affection or love or other passions. But a smile found itself on Belle’s face as she watched him go, and relief swirled in her stomach, rushing into her limbs, into her head, into her hair. A heady feeling, and she felt she could breathe once more.

 

\---

 

The morning whipped around her.

It was still dark, the sun yet to make its ascent. The party had abated long ago, the last of the carriages having whisked off their guests hours before. The house grew smaller with each step as she passed the garden, climbed the moor.

Mr. Gold’s figure stood solid against the tree ahead. A black shadow waiting for her against the trunk, against the fog. She heard an owl nearby, its last hoots fading with the night, and she pulled her cloak closer.

“All is settled,” he said at her approach. “You need no longer fear the hand of Gaston.”

“And Papa, he was not - he did not try to interfere?”

“Your father does not see suitors, Belle. He sees coin. What reason would he have to interfere?”

Belle smiled, and expected the man to gather her up in his arms. Instead he remained unmoved, his hair whipping in the wind though his face cared not, its features stern and dark as ever. That thin mouth, those hard eyes. He held his cane in front of him, cemented in the ground like its own tree, and he the ghost that haunted it.

“Papa does not like it when I think for myself.”

“You’ll have no more need to bother with him, then,” he said.

They stood facing each other, her hands keeping her cloak closed, his hands firm atop his cane. The black lighted to gray around them, the wind whipped around their ears. 

 _Thank you_ , she was about to say, when he spoke. “Are you sure about your decision, Miss French? Mr. Gaston is a handsome, attractive man. Young. I am none of these things.”

Belle bit the inside of her mouth. It was one thing to dismiss Gaston, it was another to insist that she wanted to spend her life with Gold. She had statements she wanted to burst with, but his face did not read something welcome for romance, so she released her cheeks, and spoke.

“Mr. Gaston is an oaf,” Belle said simply.

Gold did not laugh, but nodded, and Belle wondered. “You have no more need to fear of him, Belle.”

He moved forward, finally relinquishing his stony spot. He brought a hand to her face, and she reached up to grasp it.

“I will not be cruel to you - despite what you may have heard -  that I evict families without the slightest provocation, that I skin children for their pelts - I will never be cruel.” 

She had heard him called many things, had been warned to stay away from him when she first started seeking his company. But _cruel_ , that wasn’t the word. He was something else, another word beginning with a c, what was it she’d heard? _Cold_. His hand was cold now, cupping her cheek, running over her chin.

“I understand your fear of Gaston, Belle, I do. You do not have to fear from me what you do of him. I will be kind to you, that I can promise. All I ask is that you be kind in return.”

“I will,” she said, surprised. “Mr. Gold, please, understand that I care for you. That’s why I chose you, why I came to you.”

Gold chuckled, but the sound was stolen from his mouth by the wind, carried past her where she could not hear. His face did not speak of joviality, but something great and sad.

“I am no fool, Miss French. I know your schemes have led you to me for the escape I can provide you. Not my handsomeness or warm company. I tell you now, I care not.”

Belle’s eyes rose. “Mr. Gold - ”

“I care not,” he insisted again.

“But I do,” Belle said. “Care.”

He smoothed her hair, that sad expression growing sadder. “Then call me Rumford, sweetheart.”

Her stomach grew warm at the endearment. “Rumford,” she repeated.

“I . . . was content with bachelorhood, Belle. Ready to die in it. But you’ve . . . lured me. I’ll allow your schemes, help you where I can. And perhaps, indulge in you, a little, what I’ve kept at bay all these years. Tell me, have you ever been kissed, been touched, Belle?”

She shook her head, and he moved a hand around her waist.

“If you care, as you say, then perhaps you would not be opposed to my kiss, then? Are you amiable to my touch?”

She shook her head, then nodded, confused. But he took the lead she needed him to, pulling her mouth up to his. He kissed her with something damning and strange, and when she closed her eyes she saw his face as she thought she knew it - across from her as they played chess, as they laughed by the fire. That man doubled in her vision, one end showing black, the other white.

He ended their kiss, and brought up both hands to cup her face, turning and studying it in the gray light of sun unable to penetrate through the clouds.

“Your eyes are dilated,” he said.

Belle blinked at his examination, and the sky above let out a gentle curdle of an oncoming storm.

“It will soon rain. Get inside, Belle. For once, your father has good news for you.”

He watched as she made her way back to the manor, a waif in the wind, dress swirling about her in the crisp morning air as she disappeared from his view into the fog.

“Lord, have mercy. What have I done?” he muttered, reaching into his pocket and squeezing the queen the lovely, lovely Belle French had given him.

 

\--- 

 

Belle’s lips were red but her hands were cold and shaking.The swirl of fog and clouds had somehow gotten into her head, and she was terribly unsure of her position with Mr. Gold now.  

Once back to the manor, Belle removed her cloak, smoothed it over her arms, and made her way to her father’s study. If any of the staff had noticed her morning absence, well. She’d hear about it at breakfast, and deal with it then. For now she looked for the golden outline of her father’s study door - yes, there it was, he was inside. Hopefully not drinking; she didn’t want to wake the house with his voice if he intended to yell at her.

“Belle, my girl,” he said as she entered, a smile on his ruddy face, a flask tucking itself into his jacket pocket. He looked mad from lack of sleep. His smile was so terribly broad, like he’d played his cards well last night.

“Plans have changed, my bud! Gold wishes to have you. Or, as I hear it, you wish to have him. Smart girl, you are!”

He was not pouting, he was not raging. Gold had spoken correctly. “Papa?”

“I knew you were not born so intelligent for nothing. Here I thought to marry you off to Gaston, and pay back Gold with the riches that man could provide. But you did me one better, daughter. You went to the source of our troubles, charmed the snake himself with that pretty face of yours. Our debt eliminated all in one sweep. Bravo, daughter, bravo!”

Belle wavered, dropping her cloak and grasping the chair in front of her father’s desk save she fall. “We . .  . we owe debt to Mr. Gold? Papa, how much?”

“Doesn’t matter anymore, now does it? The wedding will be one month from now.  And in one month, I shall be a very happy man! I can send all these blaggards home now, no more parties, no need to go on trying to part them from their money with cards. You can go back to your damned books. Can buy all the books you like now, ha! Smart, good girl! Why didn’t I think of it?”

Belle sat, the look upon her face dumb, dull. Her conversations with Mr. Gold tasted different, now, held a new flavor now that she could taste them through his tongue. The daughter of a man who owes him a great debt offers herself up in marriage. Claims it’s her own choice, her own affections that long for the match. What a funny taste, indeed. All those chess games, all those discussions; they tasted bad now, too.

Belle closed her eyes, refused to let the wet release. “I see. All right. Good, good. It’s been a long night, Papa. I think I need to rest a while.”

\---

The wedding was tomorrow.

It had not been scheduled for a month away, but three weeks. So eager was her father to wish goodbye to his debt and daughter in one!

Belle lay in a tangle of bed sheets, unable to sleep. She was too hot, too cold. Sweat made its way down her back, making it difficult for her to maneuver. She tossed and turned in a fit, midnight around her and she pulled at the ties of her nightgown, opening her neck and chest to the cool air of the night and pebbling her skin with much needed relief. She breathed in the chill about her, coughing a few times and rubbing her eyes and face.

Goodness, she felt strange. She had the distinct feeling someone was standing over her where she lay, watching her toss about. The feeling was so overwhelming she rose like a shot, ready to yell and ward away the terrible feeling overcoming her. She saw no one there, of course, and wrung the sheets with wary hands.

Her recent conversations with Mr. Gold had been awkward affairs. She wanted to corner him, confess her truth to him, but found herself dumb in the hotness of her own embarrassment. The only thing that saved her were the wedding plans. Plans and plans and plans. Flowers, meals, church, music. Gold asked her opinion, he smiled at her, but he did not kiss her again. And they did not sit down to chess; no one did - it seemed a very significant pawn was missing.

Belle threw her sheets off. Her feelings were so wrought they’d likely show on her face at the ceremony tomorrow as dark circles under her eyes and creases in her brow. She couldn’t stand it. Her own words haunted her, _my choice, my choice!_ She rose, left her tangle of a bed, and let the cool of the floor beneath her rush her steps. She allowed her gown to remain open at the neck, but grabbed a shawl and candle to guide her through the hall.

His room was in the opposite wing, and shadows mocked her as she walked, lapping at her feet with each flicker of her flame. She felt watched, again - other guests had opted to stay overnight, and if they heard her - no, she cared little now if her path was discovered. Her virtue would be relinquished during the wedding, surely. If her guests or father found out she’d stolen away to the groom’s room the night before the wedding, so be it.

She approached his door, a ripple of light emerging as she entered his room.

He lay on the bed, a book before him, a candle at his bedside. He was still dressed, but his jacket was gone, his shirt loose, his chest exposed and his feet bare. It all seemed appropriate for the man he was - up late, reading. She liked it. He was paused mid turn between pages, eyebrows raised in alarm at the sight of her.

“We marry tomorrow,” Belle started, closing the door with a press of her back.

He closed the book, and tucked it behind his pillow. “We marry tomorrow,” he said, and a silence sat between them as they took one another in.

“Have you come to tell me you’ve changed your mind?” he asked.

“No,” she said, stepping forward, setting her candle down on his bedside table. It joined his, and the flames danced alongside one another. “I want to . . . reassure you. Of my mind.”

She sat on the bed near his feet, and he maneuvered so he was sitting beside her. “Belle,” he said. “The house is not completely gone to sleep. You’re risking much, being here.”

She waved a hand. “I can’t sleep, this is too important. I’ve been meaning to . . . I’ve needed to speak with you, but I haven’t found the words. I still haven’t found them, but I, well. I just need you to understand.”

“Understand what?” he asked, and she stared at the planes of his chest, smooth and pale. She’d never seen so much skin exposed all at once, not outside of a book illustration. She had to blink away.

She reached for his hand, slow, careful, and he let her squeeze his fingers, though his brow began to furrow. “When I came to you . . . when my father, when I was talking about . . . Papa, you see - you believe I came to you to repay a debt. But you should know by now, surely, that I hold no such affection for my father. I knew not of his financial obligations to you.”

“Didn’t you?” Gold asked. “Your father the gambler, the drunkard. Eager to marry you off for riches. Yet you - the smart, clever offspring - entirely unaware?”

“Unaware of his debt to  _you_ , yes. Please. You, you must believe me.”

Gold shook his head. “Whatever your reasons, Belle, you’ve won. There’s no need for you to come to me like this,” he sighed, bringing a hand up to the fabric that hung loose about her neck, toying with the strings. “There’s no need to seduce me further. We marry in the morning, your scheme has come to fruition.”

“But it has not, you see. I’ve failed. You believed I meant to . . . what I mean to say is, I would not offer myself to you in trade for a remission of my father’s sins. When I came to you, I did so freely, for myself. I chose you. Please.”

“Please, what?”

“Please, do you understand?”

“Oh, I understand that you’re trying to tell me you care for me, that your father’s debt was a fluke to your plans in proving yourself. But why this is a matter you need to report to me _now . . ._ ”

“We marry in the morning!”

He grasped her hand and stood, pulled her up. He placed a hand at her back and started guiding her to the door. “You risk too much by being here, Belle. The hour is late and your gown - it’s very thin.”

She blinked several times, felt her face grow hot. She let her defeat walk her to the door moreso than him, but turned around briefly with a terrible look of pleading and pity. He cupped her face, kissed her forehead. “Go to bed, Belle,” he said. “We’ll have the rest of our lives to sort this out,” his hand paused on the door, his eyes darted down to her chest and then up again. “Starting in the morning.”

He closed the door, and she faced the dark wood, She had left her candle inside. The dark of the hallway swallowed up around her and she thought about knocking, of pushing the door open again. Instead she looked down, seeing the shadow of his feet where they remained by the door, still and quiet, ignoring his own bed.

She placed her palms upon the door. “Future husband,” she whispered. “You refuse to believe me, but ask yourself now: what do I have to gain from coming here tonight? You’ve agreed to take my hand - as you’ve said, I’ve won. I risk my reputation coming here to you, now. Please, Rumford,” she said, his name tasting good. “Ask yourself why.”

There was silence for a moment, of course, but the shadow of his feet did not move. “You want something,” she heard him say through the door.

“And can you not decipher my want, Rumford?”

His silence and the cool of the dark door thickened her throat.

“You know not the dangers you tempt tonight, Belle,” he said.

She allowed her fingers to widen along the door, to open and close while she thought. Her fingers opened, closed, opened along the wood until she found the thought that would gather all the others together. 

“Chess,” she said.

The shadow beyond the door rustled.

“Each night I would seek you out. Your conversation, your wit. Your . . . art of the game. Our small moments, do you not see how they’ve enticed me? Changed me?”

“It is just a game,” he said.

“You are wrong, Rumford, it is more. A game, a banter. The good company of a true friend. Camaraderie, companionship. It grows into more, you see. One wants more than one has had … a partner, a husband,” she licked her lips, shaking. “A lover.”

Her hands clenched at the wood, but she soon heard the quiet slide of his palms on his own side of the door, and then, finally, the knob turned.

The door opened, his face dark with shadow but lit from behind by their pair of twin candles.

“You build your want from such small things, Belle. It is naive. They will not become the large things you’re hoping for.”

But he held out his hand, and she tried to withhold how wild her smile wanted to burst. She slipped her fingers into his, allowed him to guide her back inside the room and close the door.

“They do build,” she said. “When you gather them all up.”

With his free hand he reached for the strings at the front of her gown again, tugging gently and tutting at her with a mock shake of his head. Her own free hand fumbled about his chest and waist, and she felt something heavy in his pocket. She gripped the shape, a question forming, and before he could stop her with the bulge of his eyes or the swat of his hand she reached inside his pocket to pull out her answer.

The queen pawn gleamed in her hand, white on one side from the moon, gold on the other from their candles.

“You kept the queen?” she asked, holding it up though he said nothing. “In your pocket, close to you?”

“I like to hoard beautiful things.”

She turned the queen in her hand, ran a thumb over its points. “There is little beauty here.”

He stole the pawn from her, returned it to his pocket once more. “Not all beauty is seen.”

“I tell you I care for you, that I’ve chosen you, and here! Here is evidence that you care,” she said, her breath tangling. “Your small thing. That means something bigger.”

“Perhaps,” he said, quiet. “But as I said, your gown is thin.” He continued to tug at her strings, and they wrapped themselves easily about his fingers. “Your eyes are dilated again.”

She blinked, her gaze unfocused from where his hands were twined in her strings, in her fingers. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“It indicates you are aroused.”

She blushed, and he smiled. She longed to tuck into him, hide her embarrassment under his chin.

“I’ve allowed you to indulge your declarations, Belle. Will you permit my own indulgences?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“I warn you, you may think it strange.”

“I’m . . . amiable,” she said, thinking of the words he’d used when he’d asked to kiss her weeks before.

He smiled again. But he did not lean down to kiss her like she expected, instead pulling away and tugging her gently by the hand. “Come here.”

He walked her over to the bed, and she thought he would ask her to lie down, but instead he had her sit. He raised her arm, and pulled back her gown at the sleeve until her forearm was exposed. He turned her hand until her wrist was upright and he caressed it with his thumb. Like her offer to him, with the queen in her palm, those many nights ago.

“I . . . meant to do this later, after our wedding, but if you would permit me . . .” he said.

She nodded, slow, brows furrowed.

“I need you to trust me,” he said.

“All right,” she said.

He reached for his nightstand, grabbing his candle and tipping its flame until a small drip of wax fell on Belle’s wrist. She startled, but made no noise, and Gold smoothed his thumb over wrist and wax, back and forth, until the wax became chunky and cool.

“White,” he said, replacing his candle on the nightstand. “Innocence. Ignorance. Safety.”

“What are you doing?” she asked.

And he looked up at her with strange eyes, his thin mouth pursed as he reached forward to smooth her hair again. “A spell,” he said.

She opened her mouth though she didn’t know what to say, and when he suddenly kissed her she kissed him back, her tongue pushing past his lips and emitting a gasp from him before his tongue slid against hers. He released her wrist and she wound her hands into his hair. He knelt before her, and tucked himself into the cradle of her legs, which shook around him at his waist.

The kiss didn’t last long, he pulled back abruptly and ducked his head into her stomach. His arms seemed to stretch and wrap around her of their own accord, and she felt the strange scratching of his fingernails along her back. He stayed like that a moment, head ducked down inside her, his breathing ragged and strange, and she combed her fingers through his hair while she waited. The strands appeared to grow longer with each sweep of her fingers, grow dark, but soon enough he was lifting his head again, and all strange occurance of his transformation seemed a part of her imagination.

He looked at her with a smile, but it was that sad thing again, and when he tried to rise she anchored him with her arms.

“What sort of spell?” she asked.

He chuckled, but his breath sounded labored. “Don’t you trust me?”

“You said you needed me to, so I do. But I’d like it if you told me.”

“I also told you I would be kind,” he said, and his hand came up along her strings again, this time tracing their outline where they hung down over her chest. He let his finger continue down until he was circling her breast, running a thumb over her nipple through the fabric - the sensation sent a jolt through her. “I’ll also see you protected,” he said.

He refastened the front of her gown for her, helped her to stand on shaking legs. He led her from his room and back to hers, taking care to grab a candle to light their way. The same he’d used on her wrist, his white candle, and her own blue candle remained behind. When returned to her room, he tucked her back in bed, and kissed her forehead, and she felt very much the child despite all they’d done.

“In the morning, we marry,” he murmured in her ear.

Things were not yet better, Belle thought, but with the promise that their lives would soon be spent together ahead of them, she felt they would be better, very soon. She rubbed her wrist, and frowned, then cupped her breast, and smiled. All would be better, very soon.

\---

There was no hint on his face of the secret things they’d done the night before. She stared at him from where he stood beside her at the altar, waiting for a blush or the tug of a smile. He wore none, but he did not wear his usual dark mask, either. When he turned to face her, when he placed the ring upon her finger, she saw her answer in his eyes. Dilated, dark, dancing.

When he kissed her, she brought her hand up to his nape, just so. And there, finally, there it was. A smile.

Flowers and rice and cheers. There were few in attendance as so many had expected the larger affair that would marry her to Gaston, but Belle couldn’t be happier. No one else needed to be there but Rumford and the priest, as far as she was concerned. A carriage awaited them, loaded with her dresses and books and life and ready to whisk her away to somewhere far from her father. Yes, she couldn’t be happier.  

Side by side in the carriage they sat, she offering her last goodbyes to friends and family while he gave a few curt nods to the guests and signaled the coachman to start their journey.  

The air was chill, but in the privacy of their coach there was warmth. Removing her glove, Belle slid a hand quietly into Gold’s where he sat beside her. He smiled down at the gesture, then at her, eyes narrowed in a cheeky fashion. She looked away, the breadth of her smile too wide as to be embarrassing. She occupied herself with the fiery reds and violent oranges of the trees they passed. Autumn was always her favorite season.

“Husband,” she whispered.

He squeezed her hand in response, but the look on his face was slow, careful. He grasped her chin and brought her mouth to his, giving her a long, soft kiss.

“Rest, my darling,” he said. “The journey will be long.”

The coach carried them into the afternoon, and Belle stretched her legs as best she could in the small space. She had hoped to tempt her groom with more physical affection during the ride, but she had no thin gown to get his fingers tangled in. She shifted in her white traveling clothes; they were rigid and layered and lacked comfort. He did not kiss her again but he raised her arm, pulled back her sleeve, and rubbed her wrist where he’d dripped wax the night before.

It was nearly dusk when they arrived. Rumford’s staff were out to greet them, a small group that consisted of little more than a handful of people. Given the size of Gold’s estate, Belle was surprised. Perhaps the others were at work in the manor, and this was their simple greeting party.

“Welcome home, sweetling,” Rumford whispered, low at her ear.

The staff offered congratulations and greetings, and Belle watched as Rumford gave them the same curt nods he’d given their wedding guests. He made no move to sweep her over the threshold once she’d exited the carriage - his leg wouldn’t allow it. But he offered her his arm, and with the dutiful tap of his cane he lead her into their new shared home with that quiet bit of affection. 

An elderly woman with a small smile greeted her, welcomed her to the home, and introduced herself as Mrs. Potts, the head housemaid. The greeting was brief and she was soon making conversation with Mr. Gold and giving quick orders to the other staff for unloading the carriage, and Belle took advantage of the moment to wander into the home unaccompanied.

She had come here once as girl, the mysterious home of Mr. Gold. It was as brooding as she remembered, dark and lavish. She allowed herself to wander forward, trail the first hallway she came to, and run a hand along the wallpaper. It had an intricate design, swirls that resembled faces blinking back at her, or moths circling their wings, or bats opening their mouths, or, or,

She pulled her hand away, and frowned. She turned back the way she came, but could not find Rumford, or Mrs. Potts, or anybody. Curious, she removed her hat, and rest it upon a small table near the front of the house. She walked until she found the kitchens, but did not announce herself past the door. She heard them speaking, Rumford and Mrs. Potts, and decided a moment spent eavesdropping, while wicked, would also offer her insight into her strange new world.

“A wife,” Mrs. Potts was demanding of her master. “You brought a wife here.”

The words spoke of worry, of protest. Belle held her breath and tried to contain her shadow tighter into the corner she’d found, just beyond the door where she could overhear the two conversing.

“Why, Master Gold? Why did you bring her here?” Mrs. Potts said.

Rumford did not speak. Belle could hear his cane tapping near along the floor, a nervous chant. He was close, she could tell. If he moved just a few steps closer, she would be discovered in her eavesdropping.

“I deserve a little happiness. Just a little,” he said.

Mrs. Potts huffed. Belle could hear her maneuvering a teapot. “It will know,” the elderly maid said, “It doesn’t forget. Time is nothing to such a thing.”

“I deserve a little happiness,” Rumford repeated.

“Not for her sake, you don’t.”

Belle wrung her gloves, her nails digging into the fabric.

 

\---

 

“You have a library!”

“No, darling, _you_ have a library.”

After a brief supper he had led her here, blindfolding her and promising a great surprise. He’d placed his hands upon her shoulders and led her inside. Once blinking and rid of the blindfold, she was astounded with the most delicious of sights: walls covered from head to foot in shelves, every inch shelves, and on them books, books, books!

“You don’t mean to say you commissioned all this for me? Surely not.”

“No, you’ve caught me,” he smiled, joining her at her side. “It was all here before I ever met you. But it’s yours, nevertheless. I knew what it would mean to you, this room. Consider this your sanctuary, darling, when you need to hide.”

“And when would I ever need to do that?”

He chuckled, but did not reply. She moved forward to run her hand along a shelf, marveling at the many tomes housed in the room. She could be occupied for life, here. The mantle too, above a lovely fire booming from the hearth, was heavy with books.

“Oh, Rumford,” she sighed. “This is perfect. Just perfect.”

“No, darling,” he said. “You are perfect.”

His affection was an on and off thing, and she attributed it to the awkwardness of their new situation, having only been married just that morning. The evening was here, now, and this gift to her, and their night ahead, had her limbs and belly growing warm.

“We are married, now,” she said, turning round to face him. “When I come to you tonight, it will be to a room we share, and no longer a wicked wish stolen in the night.”

“You can have,” he started, reaching up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, “you can have your own room, Belle, if you like. You need not share my bed. I don’t expect it.”

Belle’s mouth gaped, and she thought of his strange conversation with Mrs. Potts earlier. “No, Rumford. I long to share your room, and your bed. Please.”

He half-smiled, uselessly tucking imaginary strands now, fingers caressing her temple.

“The gift of one room is enough,” she said. “I don’t need more.”

“You deserve all the rooms you wish, Belle,” he said.

“And you,” she said, “deserve a little happiness.”

His hand paused mid air, and his eyes darted down to hers. He frowned slightly, and blinked rapidly, then placed his hands on her shoulders again, squeezing her there. He stared at her a moment, then pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Then to bed we go,” he said softly.

“No,” she said. “Stay with me, here. In this lovely room, in my gift.”

“Here, darling?”

In reply she stepped backward, her hands grasping his, she leading him to the the pretty striped armchair by the hearth, beckoning him to sit.

“You’re certain? Here, the library?”

“Is that so strange?”

“It is, sweetling. But no stranger than other things of this world.”

His meaning was unclear, and she thought of his queer candle ritual from the previous night.

“You’ll have to lead,” she said, her confidence wavering once he was seated before her and she stood before him with his hands about her waist. “I don’t know what I’m doing, beyond begging you here.”

“A beggar, are you? Well, that we cannot have,” he smiled, but there was that sadness again, and he reached up to cup her face. “Are you sure, Belle? We may be heard.”

She smiled, tried to think of the language he’d used before to ease her. “Will you . . . kiss me, husband? Touch me?” she said.

He set her in his lap, his face softening at her questions, his brow tender and his hands squeezing her arms. “The Lord has seen fit to send me an angel,” he whispered. “Heaven and earth, let me keep her.”

Belle opened her mouth to speak, her brows furrowed and her eyes narrowed, but Rumford coaxed her into him, and held her face as he kissed her, and she kissed him. What little light cast from the fire and moon through the windows must have shown her flush, for he smiled as he touched her cheek.

“This red, so lovely. How far down does it go, I wonder? You were amiable to my kiss here,” he said, placing a finger to her lips, “are you amiable to my kiss elsewhere? On your body, dear Belle?”

“Yes,” Belle nodded.

“You care for me?” he asked.

She nodded again.

He leaned forward and kissed her again, and there were words left in her throat, more about her feelings and his, but his lips were molding them into simple plucks to return his fervor. Could he understand, through her touch? His hands clasped her throat, and massaged her there while she wrapped her arms about his waist. He reached down and plucked at her dress, opening the front and drawing her panels apart, open and open until he’d plied the fabric down and her breasts were exposed 

“Yes,” he said. “The red goes all the way down.”

Her eyes were wide, and her breathing labored.

“Are you amiable?” he asked again.

She nodded.

He started a delicate hand at her neck, moving down over her clavicles, then lower. Her skin pebbled at his touch, her nipples hardened. He traced the pink buds with a fingertip, rounding them again and again before leaning forward ghosting his lips over one. He engulfed the other in his palm while his mouth opened to her.

“You’re,” Belle gasped, “you’re licking me!”

“I am,” Rumford smiled, and her stomach clenched when he did it again. He licked her several times over, mouthed and sucked at her until her chest was cold and it was necessary that he warm both breasts with his palms.

“You enjoy this. You enjoy my touch,” he marveled.

“I do!” Belle cried, and he covered her mouth with his hand to hide the sound. He searched her eyes, and she blinked back in return. 

“There it is again - your eyes dilated, your cheeks flush. And if I trace this red, I bet it would feed down from your breasts and into your stomach. And here,” he grasped her thigh through her gown, “if I were to place my hand between your legs, would I find you wet, darling? These reactions cannot be feigned. Let me feel, Belle, let me feel if you are wet!”

She nodded, though she didn’t quite understand.

He reached below, and started gathering her gown up into his fist. The layers were rich and thick, bunched up all around them in a billow of fabric, but her legs were slowly exposed, and he pulled a pale knee up towards his chest, opening her up to him. He reached between her, and she strained to see below until she felt his fingertips brush against her very center. The sensation had her jumping and grabbing his shoulders, but his hand was gone before she knew it.

He held his hand up between them, revealing where he’d been.

“Wet,” he marveled. “For me.”

He then drew his fingers into his mouth, and sucked at the moisture he’d gathered from her.

“Why are you doing that?” Belle asked.

But he merely smiled. A beautiful smile, full and light.

He leaned forward to kiss her, and she was about to taste herself upon his lips when a book fell from the mantle.

Belle startled, and looked to where the book had fallen. When she returned her gaze to Rumford, his eyes seemed to be swimming in his head, and his mouth open in a moan that never made sound.

“Rumford!” Belle said.

He snapped to, his eyes blinking, his breath sharp. His hands gripped her shoulders, digging painfully, and she looked down to see his nails long and sharp and black. His hair, too, seemed longer, and his eyes, his eyes,

“Rumford!” Belle called again.

The shadow passed over him, and he was her pale man once again. He blinked at her rapidly, and jerked his hands away from her, alarmed to see they’d laid red scratches in their wake.

“It knows,” Rumford said.

“What?” Belle asked. “What knows?”

But he did not answer, the look on his face reading tragedy and fear, and Belle shook him by the shoulders, but he seemed lost, terribly lost.

When he came to again, he released a long, ragged sigh, and held her face. “Belle, you will think me strange, but, may we . . . may we get the candle?”

Belle nodded, her frown pronounced, her gut knotting.

Rumford helped her rise and set her dress to rights. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and led her towards the door. With one hand she gripped the panels of her dress, preserving her modesty and hiding her mourning, and with the other she gripped Rumford’s hand at her shoulder.

“Must get the candle,” Rumford muttered to himself.

“Must get the candle,” a voice said, somewhere behind Belle.

\---

They did not make love that night. Or the next night, or the next. He would kiss her, cradle her, hold her and touch her along her chest and between her legs, but he refrained from undressing her completely, and refused to expose himself. He would whisper into her hair sad words that she didn’t understand, and, oh, oh, she needed to understand.

Belle returned to the library. Where the terrible voice had spoken, where Rumford had suffered his strange spell, she returned.

She padded her hand along the mantle, seeking the book that had fallen and disturbed her intimacies several nights prior. It was not clear which book had fallen as all was set to rights, now. She sighed in her frustration.

“Well, where is it?” she said aloud, tempting whatever had spoken to her before.

That voice, how it had frightened her. Rumford didn’t seem to hear it so much as feel it. Every night now, he rubbed wax into her wrists, muttering phrases she didn’t understand, and _she needed to understand_.

What books would give her answers? Books of witchcraft, perhaps? Magic, fairies? Demons? Did he have such books? If he did, she was having great trouble finding them.

She turned to leave, the room feeling stifling, when a book caught her eye from where it rest on a small table near the door. She picked it up, though its appearance was no different than any of the others stacked around her. She checked its title; a book of fairy tales, nothing terribly quirky or devilish. But as she set it down, she noted the strange shape it held. It seemed to waver in her hand, to bend, its cover so worn as to be loose and limp.

She held the book again, inspecting it with closer eyes. She turned it this way and that, until the side of its pages faced her. They were gilded, and as she bent the book, an image appeared. Etched into the sides of the pages when bent was an image of a woman with her legs splayed, a man’s face buried in between.

Shocked, Belle nearly dropped the book. Her hands shook, but she raised the book again, and inspected the image further. A fore-edge painting, the woman in a state of passion, the man pleasuring her with his mouth and gripping her thighs. The image made Belle grow warm, and her tongue grow thick.

She set the book down, and made to leave the library. Halfway down the hall, she returned.

She viewed the image several times more, noting the brown hair of the woman, and the long, graying hair of the man. The image appeared every time she turned the pages down, erotic and burning.

Belle stowed the book in her arms, and glanced about the library.

“Do you want me to thank you?” she asked aloud, and no one answered.

That night, she showed the book to Rumford.

The way his face reddened upon seeing the image, she was tempted to tease him the same way he’d teased her. _Does that red go all the way down?_

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“Your library,” she said.

They were sitting on the bed together, night clothes on and her hands wringing her gown at the sides. Her palms were sweating and the longer he looked at the image the warmer she grew between her thighs.

“I do not know this book,” he said, thumbing at the man’s face where it lay between the woman’s legs.

“What is he doing to her?” Belle asked.

Rumford set the book down, and looked at Belle with a mouth slightly gaped.

“He’s . . . pleasuring her.”

“I gathered that,” Belle said, a small smile, “but how? I don’t understand.”

“Well, when I  . . . touch you, between your legs, how does it feel?”

Belle’s cheeks warmed, and she squeezed her thighs. “Good. It feels good.”

Rumford smiled, touched Belle’s chin. “Has this image reduced your vocabulary to such a simple state?”

“Would you,” Belle said, heart racing faster as Rumford was so close, the cool of his breath upon her. “What if I wanted you to do this to me?”

His face grew serious, his grip on her chin tightened. “You would want this?”

“Yes, I . . . I want it now.”

His face was stern, but he licked his lips. His poker face might have been better than hers, but the large, heavy thing between his legs did not lie. Every time he touched her, every time he joined her in bed, she could see it, feel it. She knew that its meaning had something to do with the way he looked at her when he touched her, the way any husband might look at a wife. Their marriage was more than the business transaction he pretended it to be. It was chess and books and talks and kisses, and she could see it now, down below her vision where she wanted to touch, grasp him. That heavy thing that longed for her. It was something he usually directed her hand away from, despite her protests.

“Lay down,” he said softly.

She lay back into the plush pillows, her heart in her throat, and he knelt before her. He propped her knees up, and guided her gown up her legs, and chuckled at her tremors.

“Are you sure, Belle?”

She nodded, vigorously, too vigorously, and felt very much the fool when he chuckled again.

But he kissed her knees, and lay down on the bed between them, and looked at her center with a face that read astonishment and reverence. When he leaned forward, he kissed her, like her center was a mouth, and his tongue greeted her the same way he did when he greeted any part of her skin. It sent a jolt through her, a warm gush, and she gasped.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“Yes!” she cried.

He grinned, and his head disappeared down on her once more. Oh, how that image had wound her up all day, it was so much better to have it truly happen! He was licking her, _licking her_ , and her breath shook violently. Perhaps he would finally take her tonight, perhaps . . .

She thought of the image, of the woman’s hands in the man’s hair, and she reached down, and, and,

And his strands were longer, darker. And his fingers at her thighs were elongated, black. She must have made a noise of fright, for he looked up, his appearance shadowed and changed, his eyes widening with terror.

“No,” he slurred, voice high and strange.

He rose and backed away, staring at his hands. She rose with him, her arousal vanished, her worry vibrating.

“You’re changing,” Belle said. “What’s happening to you?”

“I can’t, I cannot, I cannot say,” he moaned. “Black thorns in my mouth.”

His words were bizarre, strange, and she could see nothing in his mouth beyond the shadow overtaking him.

He was shaking, large tremors overtaking him, and she grasped his arms, guided him down onto the bed.

“I shouldn’t have brought you here,” he moaned. “I wanted you, Lord Father forgive me, I wanted you!”

“And I,” Belle said, leaning over him, “chose you, remember? I wanted you too.”

He nodded, pulling at his face, pulling and pulling until she pulled his hands away.

“Do you, do you need to cast your spell, Rumford?”

“Yes!” he cried. “Yes!” hands reaching for the candle, nails digging into the wax. With the help of her steady hands he poured, onto his wrists and hers, and rubbed his thumb, and chanted words low and sticky that she couldn’t understand. She smoothed his hair, and kissed his forehead until he’d calmed, and his form returned from the long, dark strangeness and back into the pale man she knew.

He rose, and she tried to follow, but he turned, grabbing her by the shoulders and stopping her.

“Close the door, Belle,” Rumford said. “Lock it. Do not open it. Do not open it for anything.”

“Rumford - “

“Please.”

She squeezed his elbows, wanted to protest further, but the look in his eyes was so pitiful, the black still swirling, his nails still biting, that she acquiesced his request.

He left, the door closing with finality.  

She stared at the door, remembering when she’d been on the outside, begging to be let in. She turned and saw the book, that damn book, on the bed, and grabbed it, reinspecting its title, its subject.

Fairy tales, she thought.

She turned the book to the side, bent the pages down and there, there again was the image that had enticed her so. The man and the woman.

She tried, now, to turn the pages up.

Etched this time into the fore-edge was a painting of a strange black shadow, crawling through a wood - it was bent over a woman, and she was being consumed in an entirely different manner than the first image.

She, too, had brown hair.

Belle closed the book, and clutched it to her chest.

 

\---

 

“Hello,” a voice said. 

Belle nearly dropped her book. She’d hidden away for the morning in her cozy place by the fire, in the great room that overlooked the moors. Before her now stood a maid, poking at the logs in the hearth and stoking more warmth into the room. It was not a maid Belle recognized from the weeks since she first arrived here.

“Hello,” Belle said, embarrassed at how engrossed in her book she’d been that she didn’t even notice the maid enter. She had been entirely convinced she was alone, before.

“What are you reading, Mrs. Gold?” the maid asked, rising from the hearth, wiping her apron, adjusting her cap, whatever else her hands could occupy on her journey to join Belle in the chair opposite. A servant sitting to join her was not a common thing, but Belle felt it would be ill-mannered to mention it.

“Um,” she said, “It’s a collection of fairy tales.”

“Fairy tales!” the maid exclaimed, and was she old or young? Her hair was brunette and her voice was sprightly but her face was lined, eyes crinkled. She had a fetching sash of red tied about her throat, and it bobbed as she spoke. “I do love a good fairy tale. Which are you reading now?”

Belle’s own throat bobbed. She was trying to read the book she’d discovered, the fairy tales with the erotic image in its fore-edge when turned up, the frightening black creature consuming a woman when its fore-edge was turned down. What could it tell her of the terrible shadow that overcame Rumford when he touched her? None of this was information she wanted to share with the maid, so she spoke of the current tale she was reading instead.

“Well,” Belle said, feeling startled into the recitation, “it’s about a prince under a terrible curse, and he’s been transformed, but he can’t speak of the curse upon him, so he’s looking for - “

“What’s he looking for?” the maid interrupted, a wild look in her eyes and she leaned forward with her palms upon her knees. The gesture was strange, childlike.

Belle blinked a moment, and did not continue. _Who are you? Have I made your acquaintance?_ she wanted to ask.

“A prince,” the maid said, without provocation, rising and stepping forward. “You like a nice, handsome prince, don’t you?”

Belle cocked a brow, closed her book. The maid stood before her, reaching down to touch Belle’s chin. Belle flinched away.

“Mr. Gold’s quite the prince, isn’t he? Whisked you away, has he?”

“Excuse me?” Belle said, rising herself and stepping out of the cage the maid seemed to have formed with the barrier of her legs.

“Hear you moaning in the night, I do. With your prince. Tell me, how does it feel, being broken in two?”

Belle blanched, aghast that this woman was being so forward. The maid clasped her hands in front of her, and they looked so weathered, and when Belle looked back up at her face, the woman’s eyes appeared yellowed, hollow.

The truth seemed to fall out of her. “We have not . . . consummated the marriage.”

“Haven’t you? Hmm. Well, something must be done, something must be done.”

“Your voice,” Belle said, “I know it.”

“Do you? Mmmmmm.”

“I think you should leave,” Belle said, shaking.

“I think I should leave, too,” the maid said, another smile, and her teeth were yellow, breaking, and that brunette hair seemed straggly, now. The maid smirked, walking out of the room backwards, slow, a bizarre smile, humorless and ugly. Belle clutched her book to her chest, unsure if she should flee to her room, find Rumford, or stay here. After all, the terrible woman, the thing, the voice, was out there, now.

Belle needed Rumford, his care, his comfort. Stowing the book in her arms, she sought him out. Walking round to his office, she didn’t find him there, nor in the parlour, the dining hall, the kitchens, or their room. Walking briskly past the other bedrooms, she eventually made her way outside, the autumn wind whipping her hair.

Mrs. Potts was out in the courtyard, minding a food delivery and wrapped in a thick shawl. She was surprised to see Belle, who was terribly relieved to see her.

“Get inside,” the woman instructed, but Belle didn’t mind the bark. “You’ll catch your death out here.”

Belle stepped with her back into the house, and Mrs. Potts removed her shawl, hanging it on the wall and looking at Belle with a curious eye.

“Have you - have you seen Mr. Gold?” Belle asked, her breath huffing and ragged. Had she been running?

“He’s in his office,” Mrs. Potts said, though Belle knew he wasn’t there. “Don’t you be wandering around outside by yourself, Mrs. Gold.”

“Whyever not?”

“You don’t know the land yet. You could get hurt, get lost.”

“I know to avoid rocks and holes, Mrs. Potts.”

The elderly woman gave her a stern look. “Aye, but you don’t know which still ponds to avoid, which rings of mushrooms, which lone trees. Which magpies to greet and which to shun. Don’t go wandering out there without Mr. Gold, or you’ll disappear and we’ll never find you.”

Belle was stunned at the reprimand, her arms gripping her book tight to her chest for comfort. She was quiet a long time, wondering. “Is that what happened to Rumford, then? Did he find a still pond? Disturb a ring of mushrooms?”

Mrs. Potts turned, hands on her hips. She gave Belle a long look, then peered at the book she held. “He said you were a reader,” she said.

“What’s happened to him?” Belle pressed.

“Can’t say,” Mrs. Potts said. “I’ve got black thorns in my mouth.”

Belle blinked, stunned again, and the woman turned back to her work as though nothing odd had been uttered. Belle left her presence, feeling woozy.

When she looked a second time, Mr. Gold was, indeed, in his office.

 

\---

 

The bed was cold, when she woke.

It was dark and midnight and she heard a scratching, a moaning, somewhere further away in the house, but feeling like it was coming for her. She shot an arm out, trying to grasp for Rumford, wake him, _help me, Rum!_ But he was not there. She shivered where she lay, pulled the bedclothes tighter around her. She rose from the bed, the sheet around her frame, and grasped in the night for her robe. She could not find it, and started to grasp for the candle instead, Rumford’s precious white candle, the one he ritually dripped wax onto her wrists with every evening.

She could not find it, either.

Holding a hand out, she navigated through the dark to the cool wood of the door. It should have been closed and locked, as it was now every evening, to keep the moaning and scratching away, which she heard now every evening, but it was not.

It was opened a crack, just so.

She should close it again, lock it again. The moaning, it was drawing closer. But her bed was cold, and her heart was empty, and the moaning did not match the sound of the voice that haunted Mr. Gold’s manor.

Do the brave thing, she thought, and bravery will follow.

Bracing herself to the moan, and the scratching, Belle opened the door.

She slipped into the hallway quiet, lithe. Her feet padded along the floorboards, the dark enveloping around her. Slowly, the hallway revealed itself to her, a long stretch of moonlight reaching her feet. The sound of the moaning pivoted around her, unable to declare the direction from which it came. Was it behind, was it ahead, below, above? Belle longed for Rumford’s candle, and rubbed her wrists in the manner he rubbed them each night, and tried to mutter the words he spoke, but her inflection was wrong, her pronunciation useless.

The moaning, the scratching, continued.

She would soon be upon his office, if she continued this way. The moon peered at her in and out between the windows she passed, and upon the fifth window, she could no longer see her shadow. She raised a hand, and a hand did not raise back. She thought of turning around, this being a sign that she should _turn around_ , but instead that moaning sounded again, much more precise than before, direct and in front of her.

There, at the end of the hallway, toiling near the window, was a tall, thin, bracing black creature.

It moaned again, and Belle shook where she stood.

“Hmmmmm, now what could that be?”

The voice startled her by her shoulder, but it did not take the form of the maid, this time. It was without body beside her, and Belle’s frame trembled more, but she bit her lip, bit her tongue, and stayed her ground.

“Did you do this to him?” she asked, once her quakes had calmed.

“Do you like it?” the voice asked.

She did not reply, fearing what a negative or positive reply would have on her Rumford.

Turning away, she padded quietly down the hallway, reaching the opposite stretch that would lead her to the library. _You can hide here_ , he’d said, though the protection wasn’t clear, as the voice had first spoken to them here.

Once inside, she shut the door, hearing a scratch that seemed unnerved by her previous presence. Through the door she heard creaking against the wooden floors, felt the vibration through her feet. She backed away from the door, braced herself against the armchair where she and Rumford had sought passion so long ago, and held onto the precious memory until she was certain the creature had moved on further down the hallway.

She let out a breath, and rummaged through books and papers, looking, searching.

“Trying to find your answer here? Trying to find your prince?”

Belle looked up, but saw nothing. “Is there a way to dismiss you? Banish you?” she asked.

“There is! But I’ve been waiting a long time. A looooooooong time.”

“How do we do it? Banish you?”

But it did not answer, just continued in its slow, low, repeat. “A looooooong time, mm mm mmm, mmmmmmmm, looooong.”

“Why do you haunt him?”

“Black thorns in his mouth, mmm,” the voice said.

“What do you want?”

A pause, and she wondered if it had gone. She moved to the mantle, ran her hand along there again.

“His choice,” the voice said. “He must _give me_ his choice.”

Belle bit her lip, and gripped her sheet tighter. It was too dark, she couldn’t quite see.

“Come here,” the voice said, and a hand reached out from the wall, fast and sharp, nearly knocking her over. It grasped for her, and she stumbled back with a yelp, and heard the rushing of the black creature towards the door, moaning in protest. She’d dropped her sheet, and stood naked and shivering in the middle of the library, black creature at the door, voice before her.

The hand had been white and terrifying, bald of flesh and terribly, terribly crooked. Her teeth chattered, and her hands, full of tremors, reached for her fallen sheet.

“Soon,” the voice said. “Sooooooooon.”

Finally, there it was, the gilded book of fairy tales. Under her sheet, on the floor. She waited until the creature had moved further down the hallway, and padded back to her room. There, once she finally found and lit the candle, she rubbed its wax into her wrists, and murmured the only word that gave her comfort: _Rumford Rumford Rumford_. She held the book, turned its fore-edge portraits this way and that, the erotic image mixing with the menacing. And there, as the voice suggested, she found her answer.

In the morning, she padded the hallways again, properly robed and holding the candle. She found her husband nude and crumpled in his office, and knelt down to cradle his head into her lap.

“Find your prince, eh?” the voice said.

She ignored it, and set about propping Rumford up, handling his form with care, using what strength she had to lift him.

“Hmm mm, little Belle, your prince isn’t coming.”

“I’m the prince,” Belle said, and carried her husband back to bed before the servants could discover them.

 

\---

 

He had fallen asleep with her, he always did. But in the night she would feel him rise, disappear, lock the door behind him. He was trying to protect her, she knew. But she had to help him, now.

Once he disappeared, she rose and unlocked the door, using the key she’d hidden in her bed pillows.

She opened the door wide to the black, gaping night.

Her breath short and her heart pulsing, she walked back to bed, brought the covers up to her chin, and waited. The book had given her answer, though it was one she would readily admit was heavily open to interpretation. If she was wrong, she could have her throat gouged, or be consumed from the feet up until she was completely gobbled and gone, only her screams escaping. If she was right, though, if she was right . . .

The creak on the floor came soon enough.

A ripple of the bed curtain, breath in the fabric, and Belle tugged her blanket closer, her lungs waiting, waiting.

She closed her eyes. It started at her feet, a small tug, pulling the blanket away. Her hands balled under her chin in tight fists and the blanket slid in slow spurts down her frame. She pulled her legs up when the chill air bit her feet, but she dared not look down.

For a moment, nothing happened, and the sound of breath was gone. She relaxed her legs.

“Belle,” his voice said, tender, and a hand rest upon her thigh.

Fingers long and black, and they curled to scrunch the fabric of her gown in a tight grip. They scrunched, and scrunched again, slowly gathering her gown, raising it higher and higher. Her calves, her thighs - all were slowly exposed to the cool of the room. The hand moved down to her rear, caressing a cheek and running a sharp nail down her pebbled skin.

“Belle,” his voice said again, “Belle, oh Belle.”

The hand pushed its way down, caressing her rear and then her thigh, drawing up and between her legs as it went. Belle’s fists clenched tighter and her eyes bugged from her head. Her breath stuck in her throat and she could not move save for her trembles.

His long black fingers and sharp nails trailed forward, from her rear to her hip, rubbing a thumb over her protruding bone and then slinking a finger down towards her groin. It scratched gently at her hair there, the curls that hid her sensitive flesh. He seemed to be searching, rubbing, searching -  

“Open your legs for me, Belle.”

Belle’s mouth opened, her gasp a muted and shocked thing. His voice soothed her, and she obediently parted her thighs. His hand delved lower at the invitation, rubbing freely at her center and she was slippery and sensitive and the sharpness of his hand took great delight in rubbing at a part of her that was hard and round and loved being touched.

Belle shifted onto her back and opened her legs wider. His face was at her neck, as black and smokey as that hand that was touching her. He had sharp teeth that nipped at her ear, and muttered her name again and again, “Belle Belle Belle _Belle Belle Belle_ ,” and soon his black finger was pushing at her, and her body was making way for the intrusion.

“So wet you are, so wet for me,” his voice cooed, moaning into her ear, and his finger slipped inside her, thick, in and out, and her gasp allowed his other hand to move around to her face. He gently slipped his other hand inside, and she closed her mouth around his finger, and sucked gently with her tongue.

She propped her legs higher, and let them fall apart wide at the knees, resting gentle on the bed as her black creature fucked her with his hand. The movement of his hand in her cunt and his other at her mouth was sweet, slick, tender. She moaned, and her creature moaned in return.

In her hair she felt his breath, and around his finger she sighed his name. He nuzzled his nose into her hair, moved his wicked grin down to her mouth and replaced his finger with his lips. She felt tender and warm, and she whimpered as his hand at her cunt loved her in and out, up and down. His other hand free, he tugged the rest of her gown up, stomach and breasts exposed, and started to knead her flesh there. He took great relish in rubbing and pinching her nipples, and she quaked at his ministrations.

“Belle, lovely Belle, sweet darling sweet thing,” his voice said.

She muttered his name in return, and he withdrew his hands from her cunt and breasts, rounding until his body weight rest atop her, his hips cradling into hers and she blinked at her black creature on top of her. She saw the blacks of his eyes and the black in his grin, and she reached up to cup his strange face, tug his strange hair.

“Let me in let me in?” his voice asked.

“Yes,” she said, and this was it! “Rumford, yes!”

His cock entered her, slow, taut, oh, _pain_ \- her body was tight and narrow, but she was terribly wet and he slid in despite her neck arching and her eyes squinting from the sting of the stretch. He entered and withdrew, entered and withdrew again. He continued to coo, gentle, into her ear, easing her to a more relaxed state.

She was slick, and he whispered her name over and over and over with gentle curses and praises. She nodded her forehead into his, and his groin managed to rub the tender nub that his hand was rubbing earlier. When her cunt gripped him, tight, she sobbed, oh! He pushed into her, again and again, until the strange creature he was let out a sobbing howl of its own, and his frame overtook her with shakes and quivers.

He collapsed on top of her, wrapped his arms tight around her back and she around his. She felt tears streaming down her cheeks, landing in her smile and teeth.

“Is this your choice?”

It was not his voice, it was another, _the_ other, from the library, from the hall. Both Belle and Rumford jumped, startled out of each other’s embrace. But Rumford’s black, spindly arms cradled Belle and he crouched over her like a cage.

In the corner stood the maid, old and ragged, wicked and smiling.

“No, no, no, leave her be, leave her be,” Rumford sputtered.

“Watched you fuck her, I did. Watched you pleasure her. You’ve finally made it. Your _choice_.”

The maid licked its hands, a white and yellow weathered creature, so different from the strange black thing above Belle. Belle pushed at Rumford’s black arms, and rose onto her elbows.

“No,” she said. “I’m not his choice.”

“Aren’t you?” the maid said, lower, deeper, more serious than it’d ever been before. “Moaning for your prince, you were. His _choice_.”

“No,” Belle repeated. “Not his choice. He’s mine.”

“Mmmmmmmmm?” the maid in the corner said.

“I chose him,” Belle said, and she reached, frantically, around her black creature. Naked he was, there were no pockets to explore, no clothing to hide his treasure, so she reached for his chest, and pushed in until she could feel - yes, there it was - and she pulled it out, the tiny white pawn she’d offered Rumford so long ago.

She held out the tiny queen to the voice.

“See?” she said. “I chose him.”

“Ah,” the maid said, and its hand leapt from the shadows, accepted the queen. The hand curled and twirled the queen about, inspecting it with great care and rubbing frantically at its points. When satisfied, the queen whipped into the darkness with the hand, disappearing as thoroughly as it had appeared from Rumford’s chest.

“So you did, so you did, choose him, _you chose him_ , I see. I see. Well. That’s _another_ matter entirely.”

“You accept this, do you not? You will  - you will leave now?”

“I’ve been waiting such a looooooooooong time,” the maid said, curling into itself, into its stomach, a ball of body and fabric, until the maid was gone, only the voice once more. “Your _choice_.”

Belle watched the maid disappear, relief washing over her, but Rumford started to quake. He fell above her, and she rounded them both so she hovered above him.

“Rumford!” she cried.

He jerked forward, and leaned over the bed, vomiting in spurts. Black thorns fell from his mouth, and Belle watched in astonishment as he expelled the dark strangeness from his body.

He collapsed onto the bed, sweating and shaking, and Belle gathered him against her in a tight embrace.

“Belle,” he coughed, “how did you, how did you know?”

She touched his cheek, mottled thing that it was, moving in and out from the flesh she was familiar with. Her pale man was returning, the haunted man no more.

“I told you I chose you,” she said. “That no one decides my fate but me. That I want my choice to be respected, not dealt to me. Do you believe me now, dear husband?”

He nodded, hands shaking as they cupped her face, coughs sputtering until his chest finally felt clear. He held her, and she him, blinking as he stared at her a long while.

“Chess,” he finally said.

And she smiled. “Do you mind? That I gave away your prize, your small beauty?”

“These small things Belle, don’t you know? They build. Build into something bigger. When you gather them all up.”


End file.
